Six Months, Give Or Take
by magentacr
Summary: Oneshot, AU. What if Moriarty hadn't appeared on London's TV screens, and Sherlock's exile was never canceled? How will John react when he finds out what Sherlock really meant by 'six months, give or take? (Reuploaded because I uploaded the wrong story last time)


_AN: Reuploaded because of 101 mistakes I made uploading it before. _

_So, I sat down to write a lighthearted one-shot that's been on my mind for a while and instead, well... this just happened. So very sorry for the all the feels._

_Rating and warnings for fairly strong mentioned violence and half a swear word ;)_

_As ever I own nothing._

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Mycroft sat stoic behind his desk, awaiting news on the raid he had ordered little over an hour ago, with very little hope. Anthea's face was almost as emotionless a mask as his as she walked into the room. One small head shake was all it took to communicate the results, as she slid the dossier onto his desk and quickly retreated from the room again, giving Mycroft the privacy he would need to deal with the news. She returned an hour later with a glass of his finest scotch, and a question.

"Shall I bring him in?"

"Not tonight, I..." Mycroft Holmes would never say 'I can't', but his loyal assistant knew anyway "First thing tomorrow."

"Of course."

John and Mary had just dropped their daughter off at the nursery, her cries still ringing in their ears as they walked out the door for Mary's first day back after her maternity leave. He'd been back a month already, but it just wasn't the same without her there with him. He looked up the street for a taxi and was surprised to see two black cars pulling up besides them. The back door of the first car opened and John recognised Mycroft's assistant Anthea leaning across the seat to speak to him.

"You're to come with me, Doctor Watson. The other car will take your wife to work."

Mary met his eyes in confusion, and he rolled his, nodding to her that it was okay, with a muttered explanation of "Mycroft. I do have work too, y'know." He redirected his speech to the woman he slid into the car next to.

"Not today." She answered simply, as the car pulled away.

As expected the car pulled up outside the Diogenes club, and John wasted no time getting out and walking the familiar path to the strangers room. His ire at being abducted (again) had completely dissipated on the drive over. He hadn't seen or heard from Mycroft since that day on the runway, watching as his friend was flown away for adventures in a distant land. Mycroft contacting him could only mean news of Sherlock, and John couldn't hold back a hope that he was returning. It had been six months after all, as long as Sherlock had told him his exile was expected to last.

"So, what's the news?" He asked expectantly, the second he entered the room and saw Mycroft's usual impassive face.

"Sit down, John. Would you like some tea?" Mycroft replied patiently, gesturing to the kettle.

"Formalities first as always, I see." John grumbled, resisting the urge to roll his eyes as he took his usual seat. "A cup would be lovely thanks."

It was as silent as every other room in the club as Mycroft poured the tea and passed it to John, except for the drumming of John's fingers against the armrest.

"So come on then, it's obvious you have news of Sherlock. How is he, is he coming back?" John asked, raising the cup to his lips.

Mycroft waited until he'd taken a sip, and lowered it to a height where it would cause least scalding if he spilt it in shock.

"He's dead." He announced, as emotionless as possible.

John paled rapidly, his knuckles going white on the delicate handle of his teacup, threatening to break it by accident in the surge of emotions he felt. Unwelcomely familiar emotions.

"Is this some kind of joke? Because if it is it's in very poor taste Mycrof-" his voice broke and he cut himself off as the man leaning against the desk opposite him shook his head sadly. An almost animalistic noise between a groan and whine forced it's way up John's throat, and his hands shook so badly they splashed tea over themselves, prompting him to quickly put the cup down on the side table next to him and sit forward, elbows on his knees and face buried in his hands, fighting for composure. He took a big breath, managing to remember who it was who was delivering the news.

"I'm sorry Mycroft, he was your brother and... I'm so sorry."

"Don't worry about me, I've taken my time to mourn. This is yours." He said in awkward comfort.

"Geez..." John groaned, sniffing back a tear he was grateful was still hidden behind his hands. "What happened?"

"His cover was blown, he was recognised by a local. It was only a matter of time, his fame was widely spread, thanks to the Internet." He didn't name John's blog, didn't think the man could take it. "He got wind that they were coming for him and made one last desperate bid to accomplish his mission. Broke into the terrorists' main base of operations and sent in an encoded message; all the information he could in the time he had. Information that will save hundreds of lives." It was his biggest comfort.

John knew he should be comforted by the lives Sherlock had saved, but he couldn't bring himself to care. There was only one life in the situation he cared about, and that was lost.

"What did they do when they caught up with him?" He was a soldier, he knew the possibilities, and they weren't pretty, but he had to know.

Mycroft swallowed, a rare showing of emotion. "He was captured, tortured for a time, for information and vengeance sake. They sent videos to us of course, asking for a ransom. I sent a team to extract him instead, but when they got there it was already too late, he'd been executed. Time of death suggested it was before we were even sent the ransom videos. Not that that surprises me, terrorists rarely play by the rules."

John tried his hardest to listen, but only the occasional word sunk in. Terrible words, torture, vengeance, ransom, too late, executed.

"Executed?" He echoed with a shuddering breath and hoarse voice.

"Firing squad, it would seem." Mycroft supplied.

John flinched involuntarily, remembering the pain of the single bullet ripping through his shoulder. He shuddered to think of hundreds tearing his friend's body apart in a matter of seconds. He could only hope one met its mark between his eyes early in the proceedings. It tore a sob from his throat, and he shook his head, hands desperately wiping away tear tracks.

"This is so... So unfair. He was so close to the end of his sentence, he should have been coming home any day now." He fumed.

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up to his receded hairline, before sinking back down in sympathy and understanding.

"Is that what he let you believe?" He said in what hoped was a gentle voice, but was barely different from his normal imperious tone.

John's eyes shot up to meet Mycroft's, shocked and horrified.

"What do you mean, let me believe? He said... He said the mission would take six months..."

"Last six months. John, he wasn't expecting to come home in six months, he was expecting... This. Or something along these lines. Six months was his survival estimate, not his sentence." Mycroft confessed to him, sinking into the chair opposite.

Mycroft could see all too clearly the emotions chasing each other across John's face. Betrayal and disbelief at being lied to, horror that Sherlock had walked knowingly to his death, guilt that it had been for his and Mary's sakes that Sherlock had killed Magnussen and been sentenced to this, and then anger. Fierce burning anger, directed at him.

"He said _you_ estimated six months. You knew. YOU KNEW!" John roared, launching himself out of his chair at Mycroft, wrapping his hands around his throat as he shook him, screaming in his face. "You sent him out there, to his death! He was your brother, you bast-" he kept on hurling abuse as two men in shoe protectors rushed into the room, grabbing him and hauling him off Mycroft, struggling to hold him as they dragged him further away.

"Let him go." Mycroft panted, eyes full of remorse fixing on John, trying to tell him how sorry he was.

John glared at the men as he was released from their grip, but didn't go for Mycroft again, pacing the far side of the room instead, not trusting himself any closer. It was silent but for both men's panting again for a few minutes, before John stopped and gave Mycroft his best glare.

"Why couldn't you have just let him go to prison? 12 years, maybe less with good behaviour..."

Mycroft cut him off with a bitter laugh.

"What prison could we have sent him to that he didn't help fill? He would have been dead in half the time; his throat slit in the shower room by an inmate, if he didn't hang himself in his cell first from the mind crushing boredom. I saved his mind the torture of tedium and his body the indignities he would have suffered, and let him spend his last six months doing something he would enjoy. What more could I do?"

John hung his head in shame, knowing Mycroft was absolutely right. His anger melted away, leaving him with the same nagging emptiness he had become familiar with once before, and he would have to live with again.

"You're sure? He's done this before." John echoed a previous conversion, his voice far less steady then it had been then.

Mycroft almost smiled at the reminder.

"It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me." He echoed his previous answer, feeling something he hadn't felt since he'd opened that file the previous night.

Hope.

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_AN: There we go, not so bad after all. Theorising in the reviews would be appreciated ;) And keep your eyes open for that happy one-shot I mentioned, hopefully I'll get that one out some point soon_.


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